


Hereafter

by Altman



Category: Radiant Historia
Genre: Blood, Discussions about parenthood, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Married-with-kids should not be the only kind of happy ending, Mentions of scars and other injuries, Nightmares, Non-Graphic Violence, Panic Attacks, a family can be two bisexuals and their ragtag group of friends, idk if this is finished or not but you're getting it anyway, post-game spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 03:43:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20735678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altman/pseuds/Altman
Summary: In the aftermath of everything, it is the quiet moments they treasure most.As Raynie and Stocke settle into their lives together, they grapple with the scars - seen and unseen - their adventures left them with.





	Hereafter

**Author's Note:**

> So this has been in my drafts for over a year now, and while I might continue it at some point, I want to post it and get it out there.

Marco is dying. Raynie has seen enough wounds like the one in his chest to know that much. But even still, she kneels beside him, supporting his upper body and pouring mana in to a Regenerate spell, cursing her limited repertoire of recovery magic.

“Stay with me, Marc. C’mon, you can’t…” The words sound hollow even as she says them, the severity of their situation threatening to crush the air from her lungs.

“Can’t... what? Die?” He gasps, his breaths coming short and laboured, “I dunno, I think ’m doin’ a pretty good job of it…”

“No, no, no, I already lost the others, don’t go, please,” she begs, almost losing her grip on the spell.

His only response is a ragged sigh, nearly drowned out by the rain. And then, nothing.

Another sound reaches her ears, the steady clank of armour drawing near. Raising her head, Raynie finds her vision filled by the looming figure of Palomides the Executioner, his lance still slick with Marco’s blood.

Fury fills her as she lifts a hand, launching a Great Thunder at the man, the crash drowning out everything else.

And then she is in her room, blankets tangled around her legs, a scream clawing at her throat, her terror building towards a panic attack. Drawing a shuddering breath, Raynie begins to blink away the tears gathering in her eyes, but that only seems to make things worse. Her hands clench fistfuls of the bedsheets—her pulse pounds in her ears, crowding out her thoughts.

Beside her, someone speaks up.

“Hey. Ray, just- just look at me,” Stocke’s voice is quiet, reassuring in its familiarity, “I’m here, I’m right here, okay?”

She blindly reaches out towards the sound, finding his arms waiting, and lets out a strangled sob as he draws her closer, slowly pulling her into a hug. Burying her face against his chest, she tries to match his breathing, gradually feeling the fear ebb.

(His heartbeat is steady, as regular as a metronome; whether that was a lingering side-effect of his status as a Sacrifice, or from his possession of the White Chronicle, she didn’t know.

‘You could keep time with his pulse,’ Marco had joked one night, which lead Aht to try and do just that: she danced in the flickering light of the fire while holding Stocke’s hand, two small fingers pressed against his wrist, as the rest of their companions looked on, laughing at their performance.)

After a few minutes of holding her close, he speaks up, “Wanna talk about it?”

These nightmares aren’t new, or even exclusively her problem; he has them less frequently than she does, but his tend to be much more intense.

Admittedly, part of her just wants to stay like this, feeling his fingers card gently through her hair, his other arm hooked around her, thumb tracing circles on her shoulder. But her mind won’t settle until she talks about it—that’s just the way she is.

With a sigh, she shakes her head, knowing—even without looking—exactly how his face will have softened, his eyebrows furrowing slightly as she begins to recall her dream, “I was back in Lazvil Hills, and Palomides, he… he killed Marco, and I couldn’t save him. Nothing I did was working. I couldn’t do anything…”

As she speaks, the sadness and fear comes rushing back, threatening to overwhelm her, but Stocke squeezes her shoulder, anchoring her.

There is no judgement or pity in his voice when he replies, just the sympathy of someone who understands perfectly, “No wonder you were so rattled, Ray. I’m sorry.”

“‘s okay, I’m alright,” she shifts closer, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in his chest, the pre-dawn chill making her all the more greedy for the heat he radiates, “Marc’s too stubborn to actually lose to anyone, and Palomides is done as, uh – y’know, somethin’ really done.”

“Too tired for similes?” The grin is evident in voice, and she can’t help her own smile in return.

All she manages in response was a quiet murmur of assent, drowsiness creeping up on her, seizing her mind in a velvet-soft vice-grip. Stocke shifts, tugging her gently down towards the mattress. She feels his lips brush against her forehead, hears him whisper ‘I love you,’ through the haze of not-quite-sleep, before finally drifting off, secure in her partner’s arms.

[)}-{(]

_It had occurred to Raynie suddenly, after just over a year of living together, as they stood side-by-side in their small kitchen, preparing dinner on a night like any other._

_The sounds of the market—indistinct raised voices, mingling with the heavy tamping of the crowd’s feet—made faint by the stone walls of their home, barely registered with her any longer._

_“You know, by Cygnain standards, we’re pretty much married,” she said casually, as she finished peeling a potato._

_“Really? How so?” Stocke asked, not missing a beat. The corners of his lips were barely tilted upwards, his features relaxed, and she couldn’t help her own smile, struck by the simple domesticity of the scene._

_“Well, we live together, pool our wages, an’ watch each other’s backs,”_

_Ticking each point off on her finger, she continued, “there’s only one bed, we share a bunch o’ clothes, split the chores—the taxes too.”_

_He nodded, taking the potato from her hand and beginning to dice it, the knife a skillful blur, “Yeah, I see what you mean. Were you… going somewhere with this, or…”_

_The pieces of potato were scooped up, then added to the sauce simmering in a pan on the stovetop. She grabbed a new potato, because suddenly peeling them seemed much more important than everything else, so she focused on that task, carefully pushing the knife under its skin._

_“Raynie.”_

_Even when he was trying to be reproachful, he still said her name so carefully, like it—like she—was something to be treasured (but not coddled; he was well aware of just how capable she was)._

_He knew her so well, loved her so fiercely, which was why she smiled, “Nah, not really. Just thinkin’ out loud.”_

_Contented silence filled the room, lasting until Stocke spoke up again._

_“You know I love you, right?” he said happily, stepping behind her and resting his hands on her hips._

_She hummed in acknowledgment, as he moved his arms to encircle her, resting his chin on her shoulder. Slowly, music began to filter through the noise of the market, filling the air and they began to sway in time with it, Stocke straightening up to his full height. She finished prepping the ingredients, (Stocke was very methodical when it came to cooking, whereas she could be a little slapdash, more willing to deviate from the recipe when the mood struck her) adding them to the pan._

_“_ _Hey, Stocke, do you wanna get married? Like, properly, or whatever.”_

_Because _of course_ that’s how their proposal would happen. Raynie was sure her face was brighter than Rosch’s armour, even rivaling the intense crimson of Stocke’s coat. Thankfully, Stocke shouldn’t be able to tell from his position behind her._

_“_ _You know, your ears flush when you’re embarrassed,” he mused, pressing a quick kiss to the nape of her neck, as if that would staunch her mortification._

_It didn’t. Well, not _completely_, at any rate._

_She huffed, trying to turn her attention back to dinner, but Stocke leaned over, his breath tingling against her ear._

_“A ceremony might be nice,” he agreed, his voice low, “Would Aht mind if we asked her to officiate?”_

_“She’d be mad if we didn’t. Let’s mention it next time she stops by,” Raynie exhaled, leaning back into Stocke’s chest as she removed the pan from the stove._

_“Sounds like a plan. Nothing big, right? Just our friends.”_

_“I mean, several of our friends _are_ heads of state, but we’ll make it work; we always do.”_

[)}-{(]

Raynie wakes up slowly, the events of last night coming back to her piece by piece as she forces her eyes open and moves to sit up.

Unfortunately, it seems like her strike against Palomides hadn’t only been in the dream, if the fresh scorch marks decorating the wall opposite her bed were any indication.

She stares at the blackened stone indignantly, as if her glare alone could scour the surface clean.

_We just cleaned up from a Will o’ Wisp in pretty much that exact spot_, she curses silently, fighting back a groan—Stocke is still sleeping beside her, his breathing calm and even. Turning and propping herself up on her elbow, Raynie scrutinizes her partner’s face as he lays on his back, his left arm resting on his chest.

His bangs are long enough to reach his eyes, having grown out with the rest of his hair (it didn’t rival Rosch’s mane, but he was stealing her extra ribbons to tie it back in a simple ponytail more often these days). She reaches out, softly brushing the hair out of his face; her fingers linger on the inch-and-a-half-long scar on his forehead above his right brow, before shifting down to the faded one upon it, a relic from his life as Ernst.

With a feather-light touch, she examines the freckles scattered across his cheeks, intermingled with small pockmarks from debris and stray sparks.

She skips over the scar across the bridge of his nose entirely—it would probably wake him up—ghosting past the thin one that sits on the left side of his lips, noticeable only if you spent a long time staring at his mouth; a fact not lost on Marco, who had gleefully teased her about it for a solid month after she had informed him of its existence.

The small-but-not-_that_-small scar on the right side of his chin was the remnant of a gash he received during one of his fights with Rosch, matching the width of one of his Gauntlet’s claws; Sonja had done her best to minimize the scarring, but it was still pretty evident.

Her breath catches for a moment as her fingers reach his throat, and the pale line of scar tissue that looped all the way around his neck: an unmistakable, fatal wound from Ernst’s—from _his_—execution.

And yet, here he is, alive and well. She gently presses two of her fingers to it, the rest closing into a fist, feeling the heat, the steady rhythm of his pulse as it thrums against his skin.

Exhaling slowly, she leans over to press her lips to where her fingers had been, curling her whole body against his side in the same motion: her left leg gets flung over his right, her left arm tossed across his chest, the other moving to rest underneath her head.

He shifts to accommodate her, right arm snaking its way beneath her, palm pressed to the center of her lower back; a contented hum tells her he’s awake now.

“Mornin’, love,” Raynie says softly, kissing his cheek.

“G’morning,” he replies, voice still rough with sleep, as he turns his head towards her.

She barely has to move to capture his lips with hers, grinning as he brings his free hand up to cup her cheek. Eventually, of course, they have to come up for air, but she feels much more awake once they do.

[)}-{(]

_Planning a wedding, even just the bare-bones, simple, and low-profile one they wanted, was hard._

_“If we can’t get to everyone in person, Nemesia could deliver the invitations.” Stocke suggested, “She travels a lot anyway, it wouldn’t draw too much attention.”_

_Raynie considered it for a moment, tapping a finger against her chin, “Yeah, but I don’t wanna inconvenience her and Rhodan.”_

_“Mhmm. That’s a good point.” He agreed, offering her a hand as they reached the entrance to Granorg palace, which she happily accepted._

_Given that Stocke was still sort-of-technically royalty, they both felt it was probably best they at least try and clear this whole ‘wedding’ thing with his sister first (not that her disapproval would stop them, of course)._

_As they made their way through the foyer (elegantly decorated, but not in the overstated fashion of Protea’s rule), Raynie gave Stocke’s hand a quick squeeze as they mounted the steps to the second floor._

_“His Excellency, Sir Stocke, former Prince of Granorg,” the steward began, announcing their presence as they entered the throne room, “and, uh, Sir Raynie to see you, your majesty.”_

_ (The fact that the steward never seemed quite sure how to address her probably would have bothered her more if the momentary look of unadulterated panic that crossed his features every time he had to contend with announcing her presence wasn’t quite so funny.) _

_Eruca nodded, descending the steps from the throne; she’d cut her hair quite drastically since Raynie had last seen her, lending her a much more mature look._

_ However, the queen’s youth was still apparent when her face broke into a smile as she crossed the room to meet them._

_Stocke opened his arms, grinning as his sister practically lunged the last few feet to hug him. After they had embraced for a few moments, Eruca turned, extending an arm towards Raynie, an uncertain half-smile on her lips._

_Eagerly, she joined the hug, beaming._

_“Your haircut looks amazing, Princ… Er, Queen Eruca,” Raynie said, reaching up to tousle the younger girl’s short blonde tresses._

_“Please, just call me ‘Eruca’,” she corrected warmly, “But thank you. Marie, uh, suggested it.”_

_Raynie made a note of the blush that coloured her friend’s cheeks and how her eyes lit up as she mentioned her former lady-in-waiting, who had been gifted a title and property just like every other member of the Resistance._

_Of course, the others weren’t quite as close to the palace..._

_So really, who could blame Raynie for the conspiratorial smirk that had crept onto her lips, as she voiced her agreement, “Marie, huh? She has good taste, you look great.”_

_Rather than responding verbally, the queen shoved her playfully, acting like the little sister she hadn’t been allowed to be for so many years; the laughter that filled the throne room was clear, bright, and genuine in a way that would have seemed impossible during the war._

_“_ _So, is this just a diplomatic visit?” Eruca asked, composing herself as she smoothed out the wrinkles in her dress._

_“Well, not exactly…” Stocke began, taking hold of Raynie’s hand, “It’s… it’s a personal matter.”_

_“We’d like to get married,” Raynie said after taking a deep breath, “Well, really, just to have a ceremony, an’ we wanted to make sure that won’t cause problems for Granorg. What with Stocke still kinda being a prince and all.”_

_Eruca blinked, processing the information, her expression going from confused _ _to joyous, “Oh. Oh!”_

_Eagerly, the queen seized both of them into another hug, practically vibrating with excitement, before releasing them and bounding backwards._

_She clapped her hands together, beaming, “Congratulations! That’s fantastic news! And, no offense you two, but it’s about gods-damned time. We’ve all been waiting for-_fucking_-ever.”_

_The silence lasted all of three heartbeats before the steward shattered it, his positively wounded cry of ‘YOUR MAJESTY!’ echoing through the hall._

_Raynie doubled over laughing, clutching at Stocke’s sleeve as he barely held back his own laughter._

[)}-{(]

The aisles of the market are packed as usual, the evening rush in full swing – no one wanted to be shopping when the desert sun was directly overhead, and the two of them were no exception.

They don’t need much, just a couple of ingredients for a new recipe they got from Viola and Alm, and some medicine to restock their supply.

She lets Stocke take the lead, capitalizing on his height to help them move through the crowd, keeping their fingers interlocked; every so often, his thumb brushes purposefully across the back of her hand, and she responds with a quick squeeze before mimicking the movement.

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ his gestures say.

‘I know. Neither am I,’ is always her reply.

It doesn’t take them long to finish up their shopping, thanks to Skalla’s status as a trade hub. As they meander back towards their house—she still feels a fuzzy sort of warmth bloom in her chest at that thought—she catches, out of the corner of her eye, something barrelling towards them from the street.

_It’s just a kid_, she realises numbly, thankful beyond words she and Stocke had left their weapons by the door (they both reacted on instinct for a moment—falling into fighting stances, reaching for Ascalon and Claiomh Solias respectively, prepared to strike down their ‘assailant’).

Tension leaving her shoulders, Raynie crouches down to the kid’s level, smiling warmly.

_Blond hair, green eyes, well-kept clothes_, she notes, trying to remember if she’s ever seen this child before, but coming up with nothing.

“Hullo there,” she says, giving them a little wave, “Whatcha doing, runnin’ around like that?”

They don’t respond, merely lifting their arms in the universal signal for ‘Up!’

She bites the inside of her cheek for a moment, considering her options, before scooping the kid up, “Okay, but only ‘til we figure out who’s missing you.”

They giggle happily, already pawing at her hair, which she tolerates with a roll of her eyes at Stocke, who has managed to hold his laughter so far.  
“Hey now, please be careful, I take a lot of pride in my hair.” Raynie huffs, keeping her voice upbeat, as the child continues playing with her hair.

_Just like Garret_, she grins, thinking of Rosch and Sonja’s son, now nearly three years old.

“Should we—” Stocke begins, but the sound of footfalls rushing down the street cuts him off.

A woman, with dark hair not unlike Raynie’s, comes rushing up, relief washing over her features as she spots the child, “Stafford! There you are!”

Immediately, they react, squirming to get out of Raynie’s arms, reaching towards the woman.

“Mama! Mama!” the kid calls out, beaming, “Mama!”

Raynie carefully transfers the kid – _Stafford_, she remembers – to the woman, whose name, they quickly learn is Mary: her wife’s name is Joan, they’re textile merchants, new to the city, fresh from Alistel. They spend a few minutes chatting happily, and then…

Mary says it offhandedly, a few simple words that fill Raynie with dread.

“You’ll make a fine mother one day,” Mary chirps with a smile, the inane bit of praise—a complement that should leave her ‘glowing’ or something—has Raynie tensing up, a fist clenched behind her back, out of sight.

A not-unfamiliar guilt coils in the pit of her stomach, and she hopes it doesn’t show on her face.

In the end, she doesn’t say _anything_, because if she did, the conversation would grind to a complete halt while she tries to explain herself, to justify it.

The situation is made all the worse since all Mary has done thus far is show profuse gratitude, with a warm and vibrant smile. It’s not her fault Raynie feels this way.

“Our stall is on the other side of the markets, near that restaurant that just opened,” Mary says, placing Stafford on the ground while keeping a tight grip on their hand, “Please, stop by when you have a chance so we can thank you properly.”

“Alright, we’ll drop by soon,” Stocke agrees, reaching his hand out to Raynie. She seizes it eagerly, a lifeline to ground herself, relief blooms in her chest—his thumb is already tracing its familiar arc across the back of her hand—as her grip tightens.

He’s cordial, not as warm as he might have been if she didn’t have his hand in a vice-grip, but far from impolite, “Have a nice evening.”

“It was nice meeting you, Mary,” Raynie adds, glad the words aren’t a lie; their new friend really is a good person, after all, just a little unfortunate in her choice of compliments.

Mary nods, urging Stafford to wave as the two groups part ways; Raynie and Stocke return the gesture, smiling.

It doesn’t take them long to return to their house, and Raynie doesn’t even notice that she’s shaking until Stocke closes the door. When he turns to face her, she can’t help the tears gathering at the corners of her eyes, blurring her vision.

“Raynie,” Stocke starts, but she doesn’t let him finish, closing the distance and throwing her arms around him, pulling him into a frantic hug; he returns it after a moment, one hand resting against the small of her back while the other strokes her hair.

_Come on, Raynie, get it together,_ she tells herself, like that’ll help, like pretending will make these feelings go away.

She feels his grip tighten, and buries her face in the fabric of his coat.

“I don’t want kids,” she blurts, the words coming before she could prepare herself to actually say them, “I just- Stocke, I don’t want them, and probably never will.”

Just like that, it’s finally out in the open: a subject they had danced around without ever actually discussing it—she isn’t sure if she should be relieved or horrified.

He only lets the words hang in the air for a moment, just long enough for him to take a deep breath, before he replies.

“It’s all right, Ray,” he says softly, moving his hand to cup her face gently, “that’s fine. I… I’m sorry.”

She makes an effort to breathe through her nose, because if she doesn’t she’ll start taking gulps of air like a swimmer surfacing after the longest, deepest dive of their life, making it that much harder to stop the tears.

“Why’re you apologizing?” she asks, releasing her grip around his waist to curl her fists in the front of his coat, “It’s me, this isn’t…”

His voice is low, as he plants a kiss on the crown of her head, “You’ve been carrying this alone for so long, and you shouldn’t have had to. We’re partners, right? ”

“Yeah, we are,” she agrees, raising her head and standing on her tiptoes to press her lips against his. She feels his smile as he deepens the kiss, humming contentedly.

Pulling away after a moment, Raynie takes a step back, moving to take both of his hands in hers and drawing in a deep breath as she meets his gaze.

“So, you’re sure you’re alright with not… not havin’ kids?” She asks, giving his hands a squeeze, “Because this isn’t something I’m gonna change my mind on, an’ I don’t want you to stay just because you feel like you have to.”

He squeezes back, brushing his thumbs across the backs of her hands, “Raynie, I’m fine with it. I love you, and this doesn’t change anything.”

“Really?”

“Really-really. Cross my heart.”

Her shoulders slump as relief washes over her. She can’t help her smile as she leans in to headbutt his chest gently, laughing, “Gods, if I had known it would be this simple…”

“Trust me, I get it,” he says, swinging their arms in an arc back-and-forth, “things are always clearer in hindsight.”

She lifts her head, arching her back to bump his chin ever-so-slightly, “Yeah, you would say that, wouldn’t you.”

He hums noncommittally, trying – and failing – to hold back a grin, and squeezes her hands once again, “Now, let’s get started on dinner before it gets too late.”

With an exaggerated groan, Raynie slumps her shoulders, allowing him to pull her towards the kitchen.

[)}-{(]

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this *extremely* self-indulgent fic! Kudos and feed-back are always appreciated!


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